


We're Gonna Have to Hope No One Does a Production of Faustus

by parsnips (trifles)



Series: GHOST COPS [1]
Category: Glee, Salt and Silver
Genre: Conversations, Gen, Humor, Origin Story, Supernatural Elements, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trifles/pseuds/parsnips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine and Sam: Someone's got to keep an eye on paranormal shit going down at McKinley, and it might as well be them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Gonna Have to Hope No One Does a Production of Faustus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jakia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jakia/gifts).



> Written for luckyjak on tumblr, who said she really wanted fics where "Blaine and Sam Solve Crimes and Also Save The World From Supernatural Shit." This was like a siren call to me.
> 
> The crossover is with an otherwise unficced urban fantasy novel, and no knowledge of that universe is necessary to read this fic. I'm just borrowing the set dressing.

“Dude, think about it,” Sam said. “ _Ghost Cops._ ”

“That is a terrible idea,” Blaine said, sliding one last ancient cardboard box onto the pile. “Firstly, no ball caps, I don’t care if there’s a place at the mall that can stitch words on them. Secondly, that is clearly an attempt to avoid trademark infringement, and I’m not sure it works. And thirdly, there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

Sam wedged a metal rack of moldering costumes for _Godspell_ up against the boxes for good measure. “We have to have hats, dude. I mean, we can’t really have superhero costumes for this, it’s like a full-time job, and Figgins got weird the last time we tried to wear our costumes to school every day.”

“The last time _you_ tried to wear your costume to school every day.” Blaine stepped back and inspected the pile. It was sort of lopsided, with a space on the left that clearly needed to be filled, and they were definitely going to have to rearrange some of the furniture before they left to cover the changes to the room and the, well, mess they’d made.

Basically, this was not going to go down as the most, like, _sneaky_ of fixes they’d ever done.

“And there totally are ghosts,” Sam said, his voice lowering as Blaine handed him a small trunk of out-of-date make-up supplies and pointed toward the empty spot on the left. “Stacy Pitocchelli. The cheerleader of locker 73.”

Blaine laughed a little and pulled a bag of iron filings out of his backpack. “Okay, that sounds like the title of a Goosebumps book, and also, that’s a rumor and not proof.”

Sam got that look in his eyes that said he’d done Research about something. “ _Fact,_ ” he said, before lifting the box of Morton’s Salt he’d borrowed from the school kitchen. “Stacy Ann Pitocchelli was a student at McKinley from 1992 to 1995, but she didn’t graduate. Why? Because she _died._ ”

He opened the box and started shaking the salt over the box pile. “ _Fact:_ Stacy was one of Coach Sylvester’s cheerleaders, but quit in 1994.”

Blaine opened his own bag of iron filings and, with a bit more care, started spreading them over the boxes as well. “So if there were such things as ghosts, why would she be manifesting as a cheerleader?”

“Ready for this?” Sam said, finishing the last of the salt and putting the empty box back into his backpack. “ _Fact:_ She died, in uniform, trying to complete a Double-Murphy Sigil Blaster with the Eighth Name of Solomon while she wasn’t facing the right direction _and_ using the wrong incense, and Anubis’s crocodile came and totally ate her.”

Blaine straightened up from where he’d been marking a ring of iron around the floor in front of the small mountain of costume department detritus. He looked at Sam. “That’s so not a fact.”

Sam shrugged. “It’s a working theory.”

“Which explains…?”

Sam took Blaine’s bag of filings and zipped it for him. “Why she was found in uniform, in her locked bedroom, in a circle of herbs and candles, and she was half eaten, dude.” Sam dropped the bag into Blaine’s backpack and clapped him on the shoulder. “Also why every rumor I’ve heard from girls who’ve seen her in the locker room say Stacy’s always saying something about _‘who the fuck came up with magnetic north anyway’_.” Sam looked around. “Should we just move tables, or, like—”

“What are you boys doing out of class?”

Considering what they’d been doing for the last half hour, let alone talking about, it didn’t make a lot of sense that seeing Principal Figgins step out of the shadows with a Big Gulp cup and a suspicious look should be _the most terrifying thing ever_ , but it _really really was, holy shit_.

“ _Ack,_ ” Sam said.

“Oh jeez—”

“Uh—”

Blaine blinked and tried to look sincere. “We were—um. Studying. Sir.”

“Yeah.” Sam snapped his fingers and pointed at Blaine, because that wasn’t weird or obvious _at all._ “Yes. That. Totally studying.”

Figgins peered at them in the dim lighting of the costume department, and took a meditative sip from his straw. “This is not a study hall.” He darted a look behind them. “Why is there a strangely menacing collection of storage items placed in a haphazard manner against the wall of the school?” His eyes widened. “Is this a gang initiation ritual? Are you _gangbangers?”_

“What?” Blaine said, the sincere look faltering.

“No,” Sam said. “This is just—”

“We were, uh, asked to clean up—”

“Yes,” Sam said, nodding vigorously, “clean up, definitely, we were definitely cleaning up—”

“And now we’re just going—” Blaine said, picking up both their backpacks, circling Figgins—

“Definitely just cleaning up the Door to Hell behind the boxes,” Sam said.

“What?” said Figgins.

“Um,” said Blaine.

Sam opened his mouth. Blaine elbowed him hard. Sam switched to an easy, open smile that looked like an ad for toothpaste and Free Credit Ratings all in one.

No one moved.

“So we have to get back to class,” Sam said after a moment.

Blaine swept his eyelashes up in move that he’d heard described by Kurt as _‘butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth’ innocent_ and by Sam as _dude do that thing where you look like maybe you’re secretly a puppy that I want to name Ambassador Hugglesworth_. “We have a test in Biology next class period,” he said, “but we’re working hard on making McKinley the number, uh, fourteen school in this district academically, so we want to make sure we get the best grade possible. So we need to study.”

Figgins got a far-away look in his eyes. “We’re fifteenth in the district right now. But we’re catching up, Peckham Two-Year Technical Institute. _We’re on your heels.”_ He took a long drag on his straw before stalking back into the shadows, muttering about national exam results and teacher licensing requirements.

They waited until the echo of the last footstep had fallen silent before relaxing. Sam held up his hand. “Dude. Ghost Cops?”

Blaine smiled, shook his head, and met the high-five. “Ghost Cops.”

(Behind them, the wall behind the boxes emanated a strange and sickly glow. But it was mostly covered by shit from last year’s production of _Annie Get Your Gun,_ so it was probably all right for now.)

 

end


End file.
